Driv'n By The Spheres
by Fixomnia Scribble
Summary: He really only wanted to find out stuff and keep safe the precious idiots around him. Why was that so awful? (Title from Henry Vaughan's "The World".) (A/N: You can only ignore so many calls from the Good Omens Muse before picking up. I've no idea whether this will go anywhere or not.)


_ the World _

Back Then - _way _back Then, like all the Angelic Host, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, existed in a state of useful, non-corporeal puttering. Life was pretty good. Decent benefits package, though no need for vision and dental, of course, when even single-celled organisms were quite a ways off, let alone complex molecules. No outstanding debts, except occasional exchanges of honour. To be sure, since the only cultural diversity to speak of involved the Choir Hierarchy, its importance was probably given more significance than it deserved. And the piped-in background music was a little stale. But the work was engaging enough that ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, could tune it out most of the time. Just as long as they didn't mute the speaker outright, in case of announcements from Head Office, a.k.a. On High.

Because of ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋'s unusual knack for imaginative design, they had been given the task of sculpting the physical matter of the universe, which was still careening crazily outwards from the incomprehensibly explosive force of its raw birth. The learning curve was steep but thrilling, and as there was nobody to pass along an entirely new skill, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, was, perforce, their own teacher and pupil both.

They soon learned the heady sensation of _having an effect _on the physical universe, beginning with fitting a single electron into a conceptual orbital shell held in place on a worktable jig. After a few clumsy false-starts, with electrons pinched too tight and pinging wildly away, it became a sort of counting off game, a schoolyard chant. _Hydrogen, deuterium, tritium, whoops that's an isotope, but let's keep it handy…) _

After a couple small eternities of practice, and fine-tuning the back-end elemental synthesis with the engineering team, and then (oh, _finally _!) automated molecular cobbling-together, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, had eventually worked up to orchestrating the sweep and spin of entire galaxies.

Working in solitude, they would raise both arms like a conductor, then imagine their fingers combing through clusters of newly accreted icy asteroids like river pebbles, sending gas giant planets skittering down spiralling galactic arms like stones singing over a frozen pond. Inhaling deep, laughing gales, draughts of sharp, cold cosmic gasses and singing great superheated starchambers, birthing nebulae into ragged towering shapes.

(They occasionally indulged in a flourishing bow if they thought themself unobserved. Because after all, their essential soul was cut from the stuff of artistry, and they were rather alone among the ranks of engineers and soldiers. ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, had learned the hard way not to ask _why_, but only _how_, and to keep their eyes and ears open instead.)

Every now and then, a few molecules would form patterns upon their own patterns, something that both delighted ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, and caused them mild concern. There were molecular clusters that formed tight balls and seemed to nurture their own odd activities within that protected environment. Some of these spat out looping chains that, if you blinked, _self-replicated_, twisted, and did it again before dashing themselves to pieces as if nothing happened.

But that wasn't ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,'s problem, they were told. They were to focus on the Big Picture. So they did. In time, they developed quite a distinctive architectural style and flair, and even got a gilt-edged corporate memo scroll for innovating the binary orbit.

It was, they admitted quietly, a pretty grand development in firmament-processing. _Two _material bodies working in mutual partnership! Each affecting the other! Amazing possibilities. ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, was also deeply relieved, having wondered whether it was really the done thing, to encourage entities to be moved _by each other_, instead of by Her alone. As if self-replicating bits of organic dust weren't enough to worry about.

A couple of aeons in, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ was given a work team to direct, to make the work of galaxy-building go faster.

There was a new Five-Aeon Plan, with a working title or operational name of _Bios_, and the schedule was tight. Having a team to direct should technically have made ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, an arch-angel, but the documentation likely hadn't hit the right desk yet. Never mind. The salary and benefits were the same, but the creative latitude was noticeably broader, and that was supposed to count for something.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ hadn't paid the least attention to the relative he-ness or she-ness of their being, until the new Team came along. But these new Angels chose to call ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, by the name _Innana_. They were young and they needed a mother to call by name, being so far out in the cosmos and out of sight and hearing of The Ineffable She. ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, was rather touched. They didn't mind, but they didn't neglect to remind the young angels who their real Mother was.

They were sound, strong, uncomplicated angels otherwise, though with the usual hurdles of adolescence to overcome: mercurial, moody Beelzebub, Mammon with his appreciation of beautiful things, ever-watchful Moloch and jocular Belial. They did well at their tasks, this small Heavenly corps of Army Engineers sent out to map and build a new Firmanent from the atoms on up. Like all good angels, they did not question directions once they understood them. There was a bit of a gulf of rank, as always, and they were always careful to show ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ deference, but after a shift they all went along together to the Refectory for a tall cold ambrosia and a re-telling of the old stories with any other angels coming off shift.

_And then came Attar_.

Everything about Attar was a little overdone. Just a shade taller than ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,, but broader around the shoulders and thighs, with nut-brown curls about a sun-kissed broad face, and a wide, expressive mouth that could beam or purse with contempt in an instant. His creamy robes seemed to be woven more finely than the usual Stores-issued garments, and he wore them belted and hiked up over his ankles without the slightest concern for modesty. He did not move with the restrained, graceful efficiency that most Angels aspired to, but sort of loped through space, letting his arms swing where they would and kicking bits of cloud here and there with a shapely, well-arched bare foot.

There were whispers that this angel was especially favoured by The Ineffable One, whom Attar called _Mother _\- to Her face! Nobody else thought of harnessing Her with a name, but She did not mind. She only laughed and called him her Morning Star, her beautiful Venus, her own Lucifer. His halo was blinding blue-white to ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,'s gleaming pale gold.

Attar regarded ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,'s Team, to which he had been assigned, with wry amusement at the first introduction, but soon gazed upon ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, with an assessing sort of admiration. _Recognition, perhaps_, thought ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,, though they were reluctant to ponder what quality Attar might find so familiar.

Attar turned his gaze to look over one of ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,'s design scrolls, unfurled upon the tilting glasslike desk. The scroll was shimmering about the edges with Divine inspiration and softly glowing copperplate penmanship, held down with little bits of static electricity at the corners. Attar breathed in and exclaimed, "Why, this is marvellous! They were right about _you_. You should be very proud."

Which had to be angelic humour. Had to be.

"Ah, well – they're not bad," ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, admitted awkwardly, tugging at a long coppery strand of hair before shoving it behind an ear. It was something of an in-joke with the crew. Of course none of their work could be _bad_. They were _angels_.

Attar didn't get the joke, or at least didn't react.

"Oh, I say, I like _this _pretty thing," he went on, poring over a schematic for a new flavour of subatomic quark. "Look at that rotation. However do you keep it stable?"

They fell to the sort of technical nattering beloved of boffins throughout eternity, and a great friendship was wrought.

It was good to have someone to share ideas with, however belovedier-than-thou Attar liked to appear in public. The two of them made a good leadership duo, a binary system of their own, though ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, did have to restrain Attar at times from his wilder notions that could land the whole Team in hot aether. Charismatic, fun, possessed of endless energy and capable of telegraphing wholesale approval or disappointment with a glance, Attar could motivate the Team in ways that had them singing Angelic choruses at their desks.

He also pushed the Team beyond what they thought they could accomplish – too hard, at times, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, thought, beyond their strength, and certainly beyond their comfort zones in terms of stretching the limits of their approved Work Orders. Attar wanted them to think for themselves, come up with new ideas, even _argue back_. (And if anyone _ever _learned what Attar encouraged them to say about Michael and the rest of them, after a tight-lipped Celestial nastygram of the "_willing flouting of Regulations approaching Divine Subordination and any such further will result in a Disciplinary Interview_" sort…well, it didn't bear thinking about.) It should have been unthinkable mutiny. But the Team's work became known and talked about across the heavens. And they were called Attar and That Lot now, informally.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, didn't mind that, really. They always sort of figured they'd go back to working alone one day, when all this Bios (Phase 1: As It Is In Heaven) project was complete.

And for all that ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, loved him, valued his contribution and hoped to keep him safe, clearly Attar was starting to display issues that would one day be labelled as narcissism, Machiavellianism and a lack of empathy and clustered with clinical significance. In the meantime, he was compelling and brilliant. Everyone said so. Who could question it? Attar didn't. He accepted the dithyrambs that sounded regularly through Creation as his due, and wanted more. He began to expect, and then _demand _to be called by his God-granted title of Lucifer.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, fretted. They were building the Cosmos. Obviously they weren't going to get everything right the first time, but they had to show they'd at least tried. There was no point in getting the team labelled as anything more than young and impressionable.

"I'm only saying…" they remonstrated, as the two of them drifted home from the Refectory one fine evening. (They were all fine evenings.)

"What's got you all a-tizz?" Attar asked. "Loosen your girdle, old thing. We were Chosen for this. The others are fine. Everyone bitches about Management. They know we're the only ones capable of seeing the possibilities, take some risks now and then. Nothing ventured and all that. It's all for Her glory, all right? Eh?"

"Nnh," ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, began, and shut their mouth hard.

_They're not doing it for Her. They're doing it for you. Because they're in love with you, and they were born to serve. And they can see you every day. They never see Her, not anymore, and I don't know that She would grace them with Her presence now, not with the way you've trained them. _

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, felt vaguely nauseous. They were support to protect and mentor the young ones, not endanger their immortal souls, for Someone's sake.

Lucifer adroitly changed the subject to the latest thing in satellite orbits, giggling over how Uriel had looked saying "called a..._ moon_?" out loud as they read over the report. Ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, swapped for a story about young Beelzebub realizing that Engineering had labelled a whole crate of Up-spin electrons as Down-spin, and how that might have ended up. They got into a debate over whether the Manifestation would have held together at all, or exploded, or done something new and interesting - the kind of chat they both adored.

Because who knew? That was the exciting thing. _She _knew everything, but was it possible to imagine something that only She knew, otherwise? A dazzling thought. To share something so intimate with She Herself. Wasn't that why She tacitly approved of their creative work?

But over the next couple of millennia, with no contact whatsoever from She Herself, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,'s thoughts returned again and again to the problems of Work Orders and push-back, materials mysteriously lost in transport, and the immoveable, impenetrable wall-face of Holy Obedience.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, wondered, quietly, whether it was all _entirely necessary_, all the strict protocol of Angelic paper-pushing precedence. Wasn't it just getting in the way of the Plan? Glueing up the works?

The Seraphim, while not technically angels, were reflections of Her Divine presence, and they were responsible for relaying Her utterances perfectly and without error, just as the Ophanim and Cherubim were created to guard and herald Her presence. The Archangels functioned as the Directors of the Heavenly board, as it were, and if they were cold and unemotional at least they were efficient and kept everyone informed and accountable. Next, the Principalities, unlike the rank and file, had specific and unique assignments, often working in solitude as special agents in positions of high trust for indefinite periods.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,, as a de-facto arch-angel without the official title, was a sort of project designer and supervisor. Lucifer was…nobody really knew what the title "Lucifer" was supposed to denote, but it apparently meant near-limitless forgiveness for any number of transgressions great and small. Maybe that's why the Archangels went after the younger Angels so much, unsure of where and how hard they could remonstrate with Lucifer without invoking Wrath themselves.

Humble acceptance of one's position within this order were the keys to spiritual success, or at least reward. A good angel was like a pane of glass: a transparent and formless reflection of whatever facet of Her they were supposed to be, not unique, not special. A good angel offered devotion and self-obliteration, and did not ask _but why? _But ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋,;'s imagination and need to test the limits, to prod, to demand answers and to celebrate – that was a special talent, which She had noted and nurtured specially. What did that mean?

And why was _Lucifer_, with his transparent ambition and florid, fawning adoration of The Ineffable One, indulged for antics that would see any other angel Cast Out to the fringes of creation? Was Lucifer created only for Her to have someone around to reassure Herself of how much She was beloved?

But that couldn't be it, either. Lucifer was in more in love with himself than anyone, even…

_Even Her. _

And that was what kept ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, close: someone might well have to save the arrogant Morning Star from saying or doing something spectacularly un-self-aware and fatal. It would be more than a Heavenly loss of brilliance and talent on the flagship Cosmos Manifestation Team if Attar did something that got himself Cast Out. ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, would have lost their first, dearest, head-achingly complicated friend.

* * *

The event horizon came around the three-aeon mark, give or take a few million solar years.

It was a Day of Rest, something in the manner of a celestial fiscal year-end gala at which the team awards were handed out and a lot of metaphorical overboiled pasta casserole on flimsy paper plates was consumed.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ feeling very tired, sat at a small ethereal table with the Team and contemplated without enthusiasm the chilled nectar sorbet in its cheap crystal-look goblet. Angelic gatherings were exhausting: the constant observance and deference to rank, the fixed beatific smiles, the _everlasting soft hum _of the Chorus.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ just wanted to get back to their design table, alone.

The Team, chattering excitedly over their latest award, were coming dangerously near to praising Lucifer for inspiring them, in the exalted utterances of high holy speech reserved for Her alone. Lucifer was laughingly but winkingly waving them off.

_What was he saying now? _ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ looked up.

Lucifer was carrying on about how the darksome Black Hole energy that they worked so hard to keep contained and directed outside the manifested universe might be put to use instead of shunned. How they could build the most breathtaking cosmic forms and be praised through all eternity if only they tapped into that energy. Why shouldn't they?

"Well, it can't be worked wif, that stuff, I thought," Belial said, hesitantly. "It's jus'…it's _dark, _innit? It in't _light_."

"It's just _energy_," Lucifer waved a breezy hand. "Of course it can be mastered. It's just been outsourced now, that's all. We just have to come to an agreement with the bloke that's been put in charge, make it worth his shot. For Her glory."

"Glory," Mammon repeated, his eyes glittering. "I like the sounda that, all right."

Beelzebub had a face on them as if their casserole had a bad shrimp in it.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ was about to ask a pointed question about _who, what, which bloke in charge of dark energy_? But Lucifer breezed right along.

"Glory enough for us all, as long as we remember we are the Chosen, and keep faith in each other," Lucifer replied. His searing eyes seemed lit from within as he sought and held ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̋'s gaze.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ felt a deepening unease under that stare. Had Lucifer somehow divined ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋'s own silent wondering about the dark energy, and how something ostensibly created by Her could possibly be…what was the word: _evil_? What in the created Cosmos was so bad that it had to be continually purged from Creation?

Lucifer had gone from calling the members of their Team _Chosen _to _The Chosen_, a small but telling semantic leap.

It was starting to give ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ a spiritual headache. But it seemed best to keep watching for now, so when Lucifer suggested that they all go together to the edge of one of the Black Holes he was on about, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ went with them.

Someone had to. Maybe there was still a chance of hauling them back from the brink.

* * *

It was too late by far.

* * *

And then, after the War, when the Fall came, it was in a moment of calm.

For a little while it seemed they were all forgotten, the whole Team, all the rebel angels (and where had they all come from? ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ had no idea Lucifer's political influence had grown to such an extent), while the Heavenly Host worked relentlessly to cart off and patch up the dead and the dying and heal the rest.

It happened just – they were drifting together somewhere near what would one day be Herschel's nebula, with nothing much to do but bitch about conditions and, suddenly, lo: a chasm. The gauzy clouds tore, the violet expanse cracked open right at their feet, and the ever-chiming Host fell silent.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ narrowly avoided Falling by flinging up great silvery wingtips like ailerons, and kicking back from the ragged, crumbling edge, sitting down hard. Lucifer first yelped and then shrieked in disbelieving rage, hurtling at full momentum into the sickening, flickering amber glow from Below. ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ made a grab for Moloch, who didn't even try to save himself, plunging mutely downwards and hugging Beelzebub in a terrible clawing embrace as if to use them as a shield. Then Belial, and Mammon, bellowing in fright like calves in a crush pen. They all tumbled over and over, gaining velocity towards the spewing, flaming lake of tar far below.

The silence was like a body-blow. Ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, felt vertiginous without the constant Harmony swirling around, anchoring him in the aether. He got up on his hands and knees and stared over the edge, openmouthed and sucking in great breaths, then finding himself retching at the viscous brimstone burn.

Lucifer looked up, just the once.

"Traitor!" he shrieked, in a voice that set a nearby spiral-armed galaxy wobbling toward its own cataclysmic end. "I trusted you! Inanna, _what have you done_?"

_Nothing_, thought ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ , _I didn't do anything, _but that was the problem, wasn't it?

He sat back on his heels, aghast and utterly clueless as to what to do. There was nothing to be done for Fallen ones. There was nobody to appeal to, no Ombudsangel or complaints channel, no advocate.

ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋, shocked out of his wits, didn't begin to suspect he had Fallen, too, until he found he couldn't ascend to return home. His wings couldn't gain any lift, though he could coast and descend with as much grace as ever. He was simply locked out of the aethers, a latchkey angel without a key.

He waited a long time in that in-between place.

Lucifer and the crew were too far down to be seen, but every century or so, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ thought he heard a cry. He didn't dare look down anymore. The occasional acrid waft of sulphur and burned feather and flesh was bad enough to give him PTSD.

He overheard a few frightened angels, peering down from high overhead, whispering together and calling that lake _Hell_.

Sometimes he waved. Sometimes he called up to them. Sometimes he thought someone caught his eye, but no, that was just an atmospheric ripple.

If they saw him, they did not call down. They were too terrified. Not of him. Of _Her_. There was nobody even to let him up for an hours' exercise in the sun.

She couldn't have done that. She _couldn't_.

Could She? _Forget_ them, _forsake_ them - entirely?

She, apparently, could.

What had it all been for, then, when it came down to it? He felt sick at the thought of having spent nearly a million years, building such inspired galaxies and carefully training up a new generation of angels for such a…such a…what exactly?

He used to know he was loved. Beloved, even. Had friends and supporters, even admirers. Figured that eventually, She would work her way down to his level and send him an invitation to Her audience - his turn, finally. And that wasn't why he'd worked so hard to Make Manifest her Glory and everything, but, you know, it would have been nice.

Nobody asked after him. Nobody called down. It was as if he had never existed. He had the distinct feeling that the Angelic Host would prefer that he, and the other so-called Rebel Angels (and weren't political sides a matter of _timing _and _convenience_, more than anything, anyway?) had never existed, but they could not be un-existed. Not after all this time.

The great Works he left behind continued to spin and dance in their gyrating orbits, just as he had made them, all those millennia ago.

* * *

ii. _The Beginning of the World _

After a couple thousand years of drifting around slowly in a holding pattern marked by varying levels of paranoia and loneliness, ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ didn't so much admit to Falling as flick two metaphorical fingers upwards – _well, eff-all to the ineffable, after all that devotion and endless work, after all those ruddy award scrolls _– and then slouched off to a metaphorical bench in a sort of dodgy, smelly celestial bus terminal to see what happened next.

What happened was ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋'s first Long Nap. A cast-out runaway sleeping rough without even a body.

He awakened to a sound like a million not-yet-invented jet engines, a sensation of being squeezed and pulled and rolled and stuffed into a confining shape, and he was quite simply snakeified. That was all. That was his form.

There was something within him that was not of Her. It was cold. It was…

_It was dark. _

The dark energy that he had spent billions of years keeping safely out of the manifested universe had found a way in, _through him_. He was the flaw, he was the crack in the Heavenly armour.

He blinked.

It was blindingly bright and the colours were all off, but at least it was sunny out. It was very quiet, after the neverending sepulchral booming and ringing soprano choruses of Heaven, but for birdsong and rippling river nearby. He felt the warmth of a nearby star he thought he recognized, and tentatively uncoiled a little to feel its heat upon his glossy back.

Weight and gravity were new but not unpleasant. He knew they were a minor side effect of the spin of the galactic spheres, but he hadn't thought he might experience them himself. It was an interesting sensation. His arms and legs were truncated. He had to scrabble with his small claws to trudge along the top the sun-warmed rocky wall.

He'd never felt so cold.

"Here's another one!" a voice called. It was a beautiful voice, musical and rich. "Hallo, little Crawly."

The sound hit him in the belly. Someone was speaking to him. To _him_.

The voice had a face, which was lovely and deep brown with luminous black eyes with long lashes. The face had a body which was holding its breath, as its hand stretched out carefully toward ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋.

"I won't hurt you," he said hurriedly, "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Oh!" the face breathed in delight. "You can speak!"

Certainly he could, by concentrating hard on pushing the air in and out of his tiny lung-sacs like an accordion.

"May I – touch you?" the face asked politely.

"May you what?" he asked.

"This," said the face. The hand belonging to the face came even closer, and little wiggling appendages attached to the hand touched him softly, so softly, along his neck and down his back.

A warm shiver went all through him, and his muscles bunched and coiled in an unexpected spasm of pleasure. The hand was warm and very gentle.

"Oh," he said, breathless, "That's touch, is it? That's – that's all right, that's fine."

"What are you, exactly, little Crawly?" the face asked, still petting gently. "I'm called Eve. I'm a woman."

"Are you – part of _Bios_?" he asked, trying to remember the details. Eve seemed to understand, but instead of the Five Aeon Plan, she seemed to think that _Bios _was the place they were in, which was a sun-drenched garden with a grove of fruit trees and a small vegetable patch, and a river running along a shadowy valley between thick mossy banks.

"Well, of course. Everything here is part of Life. Have you got a name yet?"

"I'm – I was called ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋," he said, but it came out garbled and flat.

"Ophoeisss?" she repeated, trying to match his pronunciation. She laughed and shook back her dark curls. "I'm sorry, I can't say it as you do. Can I just call you Crawly?"

"It'll do as well as any other." He tried to shrug, but it didn't work. "What _is _this place?"

"Eden. The Garden."

"Is it just us?"

"Oh, no. There's Adam, my husband – a man, you know? And ever so many animals and flowers and birds. I've never seen one like you, though, not till today."

"Nobody called Lucifer?"

"No, no…not that I've met."

"Beelzebub?"

Eve giggled. "What? That's a funny name. No."

He relaxed a little further under her stroking hand. She carefully lifted him and draped him over her bare shoulders, and stood up. The warmth of her skin on his belly was delightful, as she walked them away from the containing wall and into the orchard. The smells were intoxicating on his wondering tongue, blossoms and fruit and the blood running under Eve's skin.

"About this garden, then," he said, "Who designed it?"

"Why, God did, of course."

_Of course She did, _he thought. _Or some other team she's had Manifesting like mad without telling us. But if this is being Fallen, I can't say it's exactly what I expected. _

They talked for a good hour, that day, until Adam came back from working in the garden as the sun began to fade, with a basket of grains and herbs to be boiled into pottage for dinner. Upon seeing her beloved, Eve smiled and got up, setting ὄ̺̫̘̖͎̊ͅφ̼̱͚ͭῑ̖͈̀ς͈̺̋ down on a soft bed of pine needles.

"It's been a lovely afternoon," she said, "Let's talk some more tomorrow."

He gave her an equally polite farewell, and stumped awkwardly down to the river to think upon the meaning of all of this, while Adam and Eve made their dinner and talked and laughed.

He remembered what that was like, and wondered if his true Punishment was to be an eternity of loneliness.

Well. He could shoulder that, maybe. Look at the Principalities – thousands and thousands of years with nobody else to talk to but the galaxies taking shape overhead, and they were all right, weren't they? (He hoped. One did hear things sometimes about Principalities left alone too long.)

It was at the river that he saw his reflection, for the first time in his memory. For millennia, all he'd known was that his limbs and torso would have been a tannish colour, if he had been made manifest, and his hair would have been long and coppery, and that he seemed to have the same sort of shape as any other angel. Seeing the images of the trees overhead rippling pleasantly over the surface of the water, he became curious.

He reared back at the first sight or himself and nearly fell into the river.

Golden, slit-pupil eyes stared unblinkingly back at him, and the sleek black head flared out into a warning hood in his fright. His chest and underside were dark red, the colour of burning quicksilver, with thicker carbon-black scales that barely caught the light.

_What unGodly thing is that? _

He had bolted for the cover of the nearest section of garden Wall before he knew it. He stayed in its shadow, panting, heart pounding, till his wits returned.

_What was that? _

_That was me. That is what I am now. And Eve, dear girl, thought I was funny-looking…or ugly but inoffensive, perhaps. She can't have much experience, nor Adam, or they would have run from anything looking like me. _

_What in Creation am I now? _

He couldn't think very hard, though, because the sun quickly set in a gilded tawny haze over the Wall. He felt very cold. It cast an inexorable dangerous langour over him, and he knew he had to find warmth of some kind, quickly.

Looking back up the path, he saw the little encampment under the trees, and the small glow of the fire that Adam and Eve had built up before they had gone all giggly together and – what exactly _was _all that business? – and curled up to sleep. He thought they might not notice him in their slumber. He wouldn't want to scare them. He had a surprisingly protective feeling towards them, as he had had towards his young angels before…

He picked his way silently back towards the humans. He saw a small pile of collected branches near the fire, and nudged one with his nose until it rolled close enough to catch fire. In its bright flare he saw a little leftover boiled gruel stuck to the smooth river-stones in the finely woven cooking basket. He hitched himself over the lip, curious, and scooped a mouthful that couldn't possibly be missed.

It was only grain and herbs, but he tasted burned flesh and feathers and sulphur and gagged, trying not to wake anyone as he spat the mess out and tried to clear his mouth. Maybe he wasn't all that hungry. Just as well, really. He had no idea what he was supposed to eat or drink in this place.

He curled up as small as he could in the sandy soil, just near enough to the fire to feel its warmth, and hoped he might find more answers when he woke up again.

At least he couldn't be Cast Out again. Not for just asking questions, or for trying to keep a couple of silly kids safe.


End file.
